


The Last Inch

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Master/Slave, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kmeme: "The Templars finally figure out how to get all their mages under control without sundering their minds - a new device has been invented - a collar, attached to a leash, that allows whoever has the leash to completely control the mage's magical ability, as well as dish out discipline and reward, because the collar can both cause great pain and great pleasures. All mages are collared and trained as pets, until all they care about is pleasing whoever holds their leash.  Hawke ends up with Anders' leash."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Inch

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I read some of the Wheel of Time a long, long long time ago and I don't remember this leash thing any longer. ^^ I hope this is what OP wanted anyway. Inspired partly by another prompt on the meme that asked for a Raider!Hawke AU.

I.

The problem, Garrett Hawke would later decide, was Captain Isabela's decision to rob a merchant vessel on their way to Par Vollen, for 'fun' and to 'keep their hand in'. Granted, he'd agreed at that time, but the Captain of the _Siren's Call_ was more than capable of overriding her First Mate, anyway.

The merchant ship was a slow, tubby clipper, no match for their beautiful two-mast brigantine, which cut sleekly alongside the fleeing ship, grappling it close. Laughing her wild, mocking laugh, the Captain was the first to leap aboard, followed by Hawke and the boarding crew. The merchant vessel had only a handful of guards, green and easily dispatched, which didn't speak well of its cargo.

Then the templars came topside, five of them, armed to the teeth, and Hawke felt his day take a decided turn for the worse. “Captain?”

“If we kill them, we get their stuff,” Isabela said gaily, blades drawn, squaring off against the templars even as the boarding crew hesitated. “Oh come on, Hawke. They've got to be transporting lyrium. And lyrium fetches a pretty penny.”

“That it does,” Hawke admitted, as the crew rallied behind their captain's fearlessness. “Damon and Landers, the one on the right. Hawkins and White, the one on the left. Sangre and Williams take the archer.”

“Let's dance!” Isabela tossed a disorienting grenade into the air and kicked it with fluid grace into the advancing templars. The grenade burst against the breastplate of the leader, making him stagger back and cough, and then they were in the thick of it, daggers and blades flashing. The templars weren't underpaid ship guards, though; they rallied fast, parrying blows or simply shrugging them off, slowly pushing them back towards the ship. The templar that Damon faced backhanded him heavily into the mast, and sliced Landers' thigh open with a heavy swing, causing him to fall with a yelp.

Hastily, Hawke tossed a smoke bomb, and as the templar coughed, backing away sharply, he sidestepped the swipe of the templar he was facing, stepped neatly over, and buried his blade in the back of the templar's neck.

“I got one,” he shouted at Isabela, dodging another templar's lunge, the heavily armed warrior letting out an enraged roar.

“Then we're even,” his Captain replied, followed by mocking laughter again, and the sound of a man gurgling through the smoke screen. “Two!”

Damned woman. Hawke whirled and slammed the heel of his foot into the charging templar's knee, causing him to fall off balance, then he grabbed him by the belt and shoved him off the ship, where he splashed for a moment before the weight of his armor pulled him under. “Did that count?”

“Doubt it,” Isabela said, with mock sympathy, patting his shoulder. The archer was a bloody heap at the stairs going below decks, and the fight was over. “Hawkins, get Landers and Damon back on board. White, watch the sheep. Hawke, search the bodies. The rest of you are with me.”

The 'sheep' were a handful of fat merchants, shaking at the prow of the clipper, and wide-eyed, the florid one said, “Are... are you going to kill us?”

“If we kill the sheep, what do we shear next season?” Isabela smirked, just before she disappeared below decks.

“You heard her, White. Kid gloves.”

“I'll be as gentle as a blushin' maiden, Hawke,” White retorted, with a toothy grin, set with flashing gold. A Rivaini Raider, tall, shaved and dark-skinned like Isabela, he cut an imposing sight, and the merchants cowered further against the prow. Smirking in return, Hawke bent down to turn up the templars' pockets. There wasn't much – a few rings that looked possibly valuable and some coin, nothing as valuable as the full plate, but templar armor and blades were difficult to sell. No shopkeeper really wanted the trouble.

The first templar that he had cut down was, however, wearing an odd, green and silver bracelet around his arm, beneath the plated greaves, that had fallen open when he had collapsed. Enchanted, perhaps; the templars _did_ live with the Tranquil, who did good work on rings and such, valuable when sold on the black markets in Thedas. Curious, Hawke picked up the bracelet, and pulled it onto his arm, just above his elbow. The bracelet seemed to stretch before his eyes, then it clicked shut with a whispered hum. Admiring it for a moment in the warm sunlight, Hawke padded below decks to check on the Captain.

The merchants had been running spices, and under Isabela's direction, the men carried the crates up topside. Spices would fetch a decent coin in Tevinter, if they decided to resupply, and it was always good cover.

Much to his Captain's consternation, there was no lyrium. There were, however, a small crate of lyrium potions, and another crate containing more of the weird green and silver bracelets. “Templar jewellery?” Isabela asked dryly, when Hawke showed her the fit. “Whatever will the Chantry think of next.”

“I'm going to move to the next continent if they come up with templar make-up,” Hawke agreed.

“Well. It looks like there's silver and bronze in it, so it might be worth something.” Isabela said doubtfully. “Williams, take it aboard. Sangre, check the brig. Hawke, we're searching the cabins.”

“Slave-driver,” Hawke said, with mock resentment.

“You love it.”

The merchants' cabins had coin and jewels, which raised his Captain's mood, but the templar cabins seemed to be bare of anything remotely interesting. Up until they reached the last one. A man dressed in robes sat on the ground, at the foot of the bunk, blinking at them in surprise as they entered the room, pretty and blonde, his fine hair brushing loose over his shoulders. Hawke grinned, despite himself. It was a pity that they were on a schedule.

“A mage.” Isabela concluded.

“Or a crossdresser,” Hawke suggested, turning to the mage. “The big, bad templars are gone, congratulations, you're an apostate.”

“You're terrible,” Isabela said, though she chuckled to herself, picking the lock of the chest in the corner, letting out a grunt of triumph as the lock clicked, and opening the chest. “Blast. Just clothes. And look what you've done, you've hurt his feelings or something.”

The mage was staring at the bracelet on Hawke's arm, wide-eyed, then he made a choked sound and scrambled over, touching it almost reverently with his fingertips. Dubiously, Hawke drew back. “No, it's mine, I found it.”

“You mean you killed its previous owner and took it,” Isabela corrected.

“Same thing. Hey! What do you think you're doing?” The mage had fallen back down on his knees, and was hugging Hawke's leg, rubbing his cheek against his hip, heedless of the knives in Hawke's belt or the pouches. “Maker, can't you talk or something?”

At that query, the mage coughed, rubbing at his throat even as Hawke tried in vain to pull away, and said, adoringly, “Master.”

Isabela burst out laughing.

“You're not _helping_ , Captain,” Hawke grit out, pushing at the mage's shoulders. “Stop. Let go.”

The mage let go of him instantly, wide-eyed as though in fear. “I've made you angry? I'm sorry – my previous Master-”

“I'm not your master. You're free to explore the world or turn yourself in to the next pack of templars, whatever rocks your boat. Maker's bloody balls, I had _no_ idea that templars were this kinky deep down.”

“Apostitutes,” Isabela gasped, and burst into a fresh round of laughter despite Hawke glowering at her.

“You're... you're going to leave me here?” The mage's voice was threaded with panic. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be good, please, please don't leave me.”

“Captain? Little help here?”

“Sorry. The _Siren's Call_ is a pet-free enterprise,” Isabela told the mage, with mock solemnity. “You'll get used to freedom eventually. Maybe after a lot of therapy. We don't have much use for mages. Fireballs and rigging don't get along.”

“I use healing magic,” the mage said, and turned his plaintive stare back to Hawke. “Please, Master. I can be useful.”

Isabela instantly looked thoughtful. “Healing magic, you say.”

“Isabela,” Hawke interjected quickly. “You can't possibly be thinking what I'm thinking.”

“Usually I'm not, thank the Maker,” Isabela shot back. “But mages with healing magic are rare, and we've got two injured men on board.”

“Sure,” Hawke drawled, “The healer apostate will look so pretty sitting between your stolen paintings and purloined jewellery. We've discussed this. No slaves. People aren't property.”

“I _know_ that. He won't be a slave. He'll work for his keep and then we'll drop him off at the next port.” Isabela said soothingly. “We've got a stock of potions, but we need them where we're going. Besides, what do you think will happen to him if we leave him here?”

“As though you usually care about that,” Hawke grumbled. “Fine. But this is going to blow up in our faces at the end, I just know it.” Hawke glanced down at the mage. “What's your name?”

“Anders.” Anders looked quickly between the both of them, uncertain.

“You're coming along after all, Anders,” Hawke sighed. “As indentured labor, apparently.”

Anders' expression seemed to crumple with relief. “Oh, thank you, Master.”

Isabela quickly covered her mouth, and Hawke rolled his eyes at her. “First ground rule. Do not call me 'Master', my name is Hawke. This is Captain Isabela of the _Siren's Call_.”

“Let's get him aboard so that he can start work on Landers' leg.”

“You just like watching things sparkle,” Hawke accused.

1.0

Anders wasn't quite sure what to make of his new master. Garrett Hawke was evidently one of the infamous Raiders, judging from the red blindfolded skull heraldry that flew proudly on the black flag at the mainmast; one of the wolves of the sea, for all that he looked Fereldan even with that sun-baked skin. He had a sailor's rolling walk, a devil-may-care confidence, and from the way the other Raiders acted, Hawke was evidently second-in-command to the Rivaini Captain.

Tales of the Raiders had filtered through even within the cloistered Lake Calenhad Circle, each story wilder than the next, of voracious killers that stalked merchant ships and warships alike. The Felicisima Armada had been a serious thorn in the qunari flank during the Exalted Marches, using cunning and trickery with surprising success against the qunari dreadnoughts. And judging from the bodies of the templars that he had passed on the way aboard the _Siren's Call_ , their reputation as fearsome brawlers were well-deserved.

It didn't take long to clean and heal the wound on Landers' leg, then the minor fracture on the shoulder that the other Raider, Damon, had suffered, though Anders felt self-conscious the whole way, with Hawke and the Captain watching his work closely. When Damon rolled his healed shoulder, looking surprised, Isabela folded her arms across her ample chest, pleased. “See? Your Captain was right. As usual.”

“My Captain is usually right,” Hawke shot back, “Up until something explodes, in which case, my Captain is usually of the opinion that it 'couldn't have been helped', or that 'it would have happened anyway'.” He turned to glance at Anders, and the mage leaned forward a little, hoping for praise. It didn't come. “You can explore the ship or something. Just stay out of everyone's way and try not to fall overboard. And don't touch any of the rum. What are you still standing there for?”

“Exactly, your Captain is usually right,” Isabela repeated, unruffled, as, uncertain about Hawke's order, Anders backpedaled away and settled for hiding behind the mainmast. “Stop fretting, Hawke. With the wind in our sails, we'll be at Cape Thorn within a week or two, and we'll unload all the cargo.”

“That's easy for you to say. You don't have cargo following you around like a puppy.” Hawke was following Isabela up to the helm, easily keeping his footing on the steps despite the choppy waves, all rolling, fluid grace.

“I could have him put in the brig, if you want.” Isabela looked at the compass chained to the spokes of the helm, stroking the wheel lovingly before glancing up at the sky. “What's with all your belly-aching? He's totally your type. Tall, blonde and desperate.”

Hawke slapped his hand over his face. “Thank you for pointing that out, Isabela.”

“Happy to help. Though I should add, he's your responsibility until we unload him somewhere. I don't want him discovering the use of fire magic under stress. We'll warn the men but you know how they'd get about a week away from port.”

“Oh _no_ , you're not going to-”

“Don't be such a baby. Your cabin's big enough for two.”

Hawke muttered something that Anders couldn't catch, then, “So you'd rather we lock him in the cabin and give him walkies now and then like a pet?”

“He didn't seem to mind it on that merchant ship.”

“Juts because he didn't mind doesn't mean that it's _right_.”

“This conscience of yours,” Isabela shook her head slowly, though Anders could see that she smiled. “I'll leave it up to you, then. Pity. We could use a healer.”

“You can learn bandaging, injury kits and potions like the rest of us mortals.” His master abruptly seemed to notice his presence, with a blink. “What are you still doing here?”

Isabela snickered. “Maybe you should give him the guided tour, 'Master'. Get off my bridge.”

Hawke scowled at Isabela, though he obeyed, padding down the stairs and beckoning at Anders. Brightening, Anders trotted over, only to stumble heavily once he was close as the ship rolled. Hawke's hand shot out, grabbing him by the shoulder and righting him, then he turned to go below decks. “Watch your step.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“I...” Anders swallowed, cursing his habit. Having a non-Templar as a master was going to take a lot of adjustment. “I'm sorry.”

“And stop apologizing all the time, it's incredibly disconcerting. You're part of the crew for now.” Hawke showed him to a cabin. “We're short on space, so we get to share, and you'll no doubt be complaining about my snoring tomorrow morning. I'll get a hammock set up for you.”

“It's not necessary Mas... uh, ser,” Anders corrected himself when Hawke arched an eyebrow at him. “I can sleep on the foot of your bed. Or on the ground. Whatever you want.”

Hawke was staring at him oddly. “I haven't been in the Free Marchers or Ferelden for a while, but the last that I was, I'm fairly sure that we didn't have mage slaves. What happened?”

“The qunari have a leash for their mages, the _saarebas_ ,” Anders said, pointing at the bracelet on Hawke's arm. “About a year or so ago, the templars perfected their version. The Calenhad Circle was the first to implement it, because of the blood mage incident that broke out within it.”

“A leash?” Hawke grimaced, tapping at the bracelet. “This makes you obey me?” Anders nodded. There was more to that, but he could sense that his new master probably wasn't going to take it very well. Hawke sighed, and felt around the bracelet, removing it.

“What... what are you doing?”

“Here. Take it.” Hawke held out the bracelet, and Anders recoiled.

“No. No, put it back on, please! You don't understand, I'll be made Tranquil, have mercy, _please_ -”

“Calm down. There aren't any templars here. They're rather hard to miss.”

“If no one wears the leash, I'll automatically turn Tranquil within the hour,” Anders said desperately. “Please. Put it back on, or give it to someone else.”

Hawke blinked at him, then he shuddered, and clasped the bracelet back on his arm. “Maker's bloody balls. Suddenly, I'm almost glad that my father and sister didn't survive the Blight. I've put it back on, see? You can breathe now. Please let go of my leg.”

Reluctantly, he did so, though he remained on his knees. “Thank you – thank you for your kindness.”

“This isn't a kindness, Anders.” Hawke said, and there was an odd thread in his voice, almost like anger, then the Raider took a deep, slow breath, gentling his voice. “Isabela doesn't like people getting into the hold, but the galley and the other parts of the ship are free game. Don't go topside when we call all hands on deck, that's for the crew only, not tourists. Stay in the cabin when there's a storm. Otherwise, you can do what you want.”

“I can do what I want?” Anders repeated, nervously. “Anything?”

“So long as it doesn't involve our rum ration, jumping overboard, or firing cannonballs for fun, or, hm, stealing things, us thieves do so hate it when we get thieved from, or, _what are you doing_?”

Anders hesitated, his fingers on the buckle of one of Hawke's belts, and he licked his lips, looking up. “If I can do what I want, I want to please you.”

Hawke's amber-brown eyes turned dark, almost black, for a moment, then he shivered visibly and batted Anders' hands away. “I'll rather you didn't, thank you.”

“I've had training,” Anders protested. “My previous master said that I was good.” It was usually the only way that Anders could earn any praise at all, in fact.

“Let's not ever mention your previous master again,” Hawke growled. “Or I'll be very tempted to keelhaul the next templar that I see. Andraste's tits,” he muttered, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I'm going topside. Don't follow me,” he added, when Anders made as if to get to his feet.

Uncertain, Anders sank back down on his knees, and scooted to a corner of the cabin when Hawke left, nervous again. He wasn't sure what he had done wrong. The Captain had implied that Hawke would have wanted it, hadn't she? Thinking back carefully on the conversation, trying to remember if he had seen any cues, he didn't see the big calico cat pad into the room until it sniffed at his fingers.

“Hello.” Anders blinked, surprised, as the cat purred at him and rubbed itself heavily against his thigh. The animal was as large as a medium-sized dog. “You must be the ship's cat.”

The purr grew louder as Anders scratched at its ears, and as he listened to it, the nervousness subsided slowly, into a tentative calm that he welcomed, reminding him of an earlier life, before the Mandate, of the sketches he doodled in the margins of his books. Leaning back against the hull of the ship, glancing up at the circle of sky from the porthole, Anders was beginning to relax, when he heard the faint sounds of raised voices on the wind, Master's and the Captain's. That meant that Master was upset, and it was more than likely his fault. He'll have to try harder.

II.

Anders was asleep when Isabela finally ordered Hawke to return to the cabin and get some rest, but at the foot of the bunk, against the wall, rather than in the newly set up hammock near the desk. Major glanced at him with its yellow eyes, pupils large and dilated in the dark, and stretched luxuriously on Anders' lap.

“I should put the bracelet on you,” Hawke told it, as the cat yawned. “That would be pretty hilarious.” And possibly fatal. Major didn't seem to like most of the crew, or humanity in general except Isabela, and that was probably only due to its healthy survival instinct. A cat-controlled mage would be a disaster on the open sea.

As he'd thought, Isabela had been thoroughly unsympathetic. To the point where she'd asked him straight out whether he would prefer the bracelet being on anyone else on the ship, at which query he had drawn short. They had a good crew, all seasoned men, hand-picked for what they were about to do, but Hawke didn't think that any of them would have turned down Anders' offer. Maker, he himself had been very tempted. The mage had a very pretty mouth-

Clamping down on that thought, Hawke muttered the filthiest curse he could think of under his breath, and sighed. The cabin looked as though it had been cleaned up, though the dagger collection embedded in the aft wall was untouched, the haphazard piles of correspondence, maps and notes on the desk had been shuffled into neat piles under the weights. The clothes in the chests had been folded, and Hawke had a sinking feeling that if he left his armor in the cabin over the course of the day it'd also end up polished and wiped.

Stripping off his armor as quietly as possible and stacking it on the armor stand, Hawke was pulling off his undershirt when he realized that Anders was awake, and watching him avidly from over the edge of the bunk. “Don't look at me like that. And what are you doing there? You're meant to be sleeping here.” Hawke tapped at the hammock. “Once you get tipped out of it once or twice you'll get the hang of it. Besides, Major likes hammocks.”

“Major?”

“That bad-tempered little monster lying on you.”

“It's...” Anders hesitated, as though he was unable to disagree with Hawke, and amended, “It was quite friendly.”

“It's a surprise to me. Watch.” Hawke went down on his haunches beside the cat, and reached for its flank. Major didn't bat an eye, but Hawke had to hastily pull back his hand as a paw swiped viciously through the air space where his fingers had been. With one contemptuous lash of its tail, Major rose, stretching and kneading, and padded out of the cabin. “Usually, it only keeps an amicable working relationship with the Captain. It's a champion ratter, though. You should see the size those things get to when they spend a week or so in the brig...” Hawke realized belatedly that he seemed to be talking to himself. Waving a hand before Anders' eyes, he said, “Hello?”

Anders looked up, blinking rapidly and flushing. “I'm sorr... er, that is to say, I was thinking. Occupied.”

“About what?” Hawke asked automatically, then as Anders' flush deepened, his eyes flicking back down Hawke's bared chest, he pulled a face. “Actually, don't tell me.” It was clear as the bloody day, anyway. “You're going on the hammock. Now.”

A woeful expression crept onto Anders' face and pitched camp, as the mage asked, humbly, “If Master could tell me what I am doing wrong-”

“Ground rules, Anders, remember? I have a name.”

“It would not be appropriate-”

“ _Anders_ ,” Hawke snapped, his patience winding thin, “Just _listen_.” To his shock, Anders stiffened, making a choking sound and clawing at his neck. Hastily, Hawke managed to get the high collared robe open, only to stare dumbfounded at the slender circlet around Anders' neck, that looked like it was of the same make as the bracelet on his arm. It was marked by a set of new and old bruises in a green and purpling ring on the skin, as well as the scars of new and old scratches. “Maker, what is _that_?”

Anders was shaking, slumped against the wall as Hawke pressed his fingers around the circlet. It moved loosely now, but he felt something like static to the touch, a residue of magic. “It's my collar. It's linked to the leash on your arm. If you get upset with me, it reacts.”

Hawke took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly, trying to think calm thoughts. And the templars thought that the _Tevinter_ system of slavery was inhumane. Pot and kettle. “And similarly, if we manage to get it off you, something bad will happen?”

Anders nodded, biting at his own lower lip. “I won't survive it. The templars gathered us in the courtyard, after they collared us. They forcibly removed the collar on one of the mages just to show us what would happen. It... it...”

Hawke had a very healthy imagination. “Moving along! You're a healer. Can't you heal all the damage?”

“It wasn't what the prev... that is to say, um-”

“Let me rephrase that. I want you to heal all these marks.” Anders nodded quickly, pressing his fingers over his skin and frowning in concentration. After a moment, the bruising and the reddened marks disappeared, and the mage breathed out, looking back up at Hawke hopefully. “Now what?”

“I,” Anders tentatively took Hawke's palm from the circlet with both his hands and rubbed his cheek against it. “I've been good?”

“Yes, you've been good,” Hawke said, with some exasperation, “If you want a biscuit as a reward or something, you're shit out of luck, the galley's closed...” His words trailed off as Anders let out a shuddering sigh, as though in ecstasy, his hips bucking up into the air for a moment before he slumped back against the wall, his eyes dulled with sated pleasure. “Maker's... flaming bloody... arsehole,” Hawke said at last, wide-eyed. He had not just seen what he had seen.

“Thank you, Master,” Anders said dreamily, his smile adoring, and Hawke hastily pulled his hand away, wiping it on his breeches.

“Uh... don't mention it. Maker, I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to try and soap my brain.” He wished he could go back topside, but Isabela would probably kick him overboard. “Why don't you, ah, try the hammock, and... good night.”

Anders fell out of the hammock a couple of times during the night. This Hawke knew because he was Alert and Aware, and not because he was having trouble with his blasted haunted dreams.

2.0.

Master knew a _lot_ of invective. Some of which Anders didn't even remotely begin to understand. Five minutes into the diatribe, Hawke let go of the hand that he had caught reaching for his morning erection with a tight, “... and _don't_ do that again.”

Anders massaged his wrist. Hawke had a wiry strength to him that seemed out of place with his lean, compact frame, and he slept lightly, like a wild cat. “I'm sorry, Master,” he said softly, uncertain again.

“If I'd had my blades with me you might have ended up dead,” Hawke said crossly, rubbing a palm slowly down his face. A dull ache pulsed from the collar, but it faded quickly.

“Would Master prefer my mouth?” Anders asked tentatively. “Or my-”

“Master would prefer that you _shut up_ ,” Hawke growled, and Anders coughed as the collar reacted with a faint hum to his ears, cutting off the rest of his words. Hawke's fingers froze over his face. “Did I just...? Oh, for the Maker's _sake_. I didn't mean that. You can talk.”

“Thank you, Mas-”

“Ah!” Hawke held up a finger.

“... uh, ser,” Anders stuttered quickly.

Hawke sighed, and rolled over onto his flank to watch him. “What's my name?”

“I... I...” Conditioning fought a losing battle against his Master's hypnotic stare, and finally ceded the field when Hawke arched an eyebrow. “Garrett H-Hawke.” Words had power – this was one of the first things that Anders had ever learned in the Circle. Knowing – and being able to say – someone's name had a little power of its own. It was an acknowledgement that he was something more than what he knew he was, unknown territory, and Anders knew that he should be wary, but he wasn't. It was the way Hawke smiled at him when he said it, like the sun coming up.

“G... wait,” Hawke caught himself, looking suspicious. “I nearly said one of your cursed trigger words. Don't look so _disappointed_. Sweet Andraste! All right,” Master muttered, as though to himself. “I can survive the trip to the Cape without pitching someone overboard. You,” he added, when Anders blinked at him, “Are there other trigger words? So I don't accidentally make you... Maker, I don't know, do a sudden shimmy in public, or turn into a rabbit, or something.”

“No, Mas... um, Hawke.”

“So we can't trust templars to be creative.” Oddly enough, Hawke looked vaguely disappointed. “Now that you've mastered the first ground rule _so_ well, let's try another one. We are not going to have sex. Understand? Need me to repeat that?”

“But-”

“That means that you don't try to touch me, or 'accidentally' bump into me or climb into my bed for warmth or... all right, I probably shouldn't read so many of the Captain's ridiculous books,” Hawke muttered. “What? Don't tell me you'll turn Tranquil or something. Or after keelhauling the next templar I meet I will wait till he dries off before setting him on fire.”

“Do I displease you somehow? I'll be better,” Anders promised, twisting his fingers in his robes.

“Let me ask you something. When they did this collar thing, there had to be, I don't know, old biddy mages, or ugly horsefaced... actually, let me stop myself there before I say something _too_ obnoxiously shallow.” Hawke took a deep breath. “Did the templars seriously turn _everyone_ in the Circle into harem people from one of Isabela's more lurid novels? Because I've seen my share of mages following Isabela around the Waking Sea, and you're not all pretty.” There was a pause. “I said it, didn't I. The obnoxiously shallow comment.”

“Some of us were left to... do what they did before the Mandate. Studies and meditation.” The lucky ones, Anders added mentally. Some mages, particularly the Senior Enchanters, had long formed friendships with some of the older, staid templars, and their leashes had been hastily claimed. The rest of the Circle had not been so lucky.

Hawke's expression sobered further. “How many?”

“I'm not sure. It depended on who held your leash.” Some templars were worse than others. Far, far worse. During the first two weeks of the Mandate, before the collars' insidious magic and reward system managed to take firm root, Anders had already seen a lifetime's share of creative suicides. “What they wanted you to do to please them.”

“How many er, handlers have you had before me?”

“Three.” Sometimes he still had nightmares about the second one, Ser Bran. He'd been relieved when the late Ser Tanner had traded in favors for his leash. Ser Tanner had been a cold and brutal man, but at least he didn't take pleasure in breaking Anders' fingers, or cutting him open to see how quickly he could heal himself before he bled out; he'd wanted Anders primarily as a healer, on his apostate hunts.

“And they all wanted you to service them?”

Anders nodded slowly. “It was my-”

“So somehow, you ended up with _three_ rapist arseholes in a row?”

“Some were worse than others,” Anders said quietly, watching uncertainly as Hawke's eyes seemed to narrow into slits. “Uh. And it wasn't, really-”

“As far as I'm concerned,” Hawke slipped off the bed, striding over to his armor, “This,” he tapped at the bracelet at his arm, “Makes informed consent impossible. And that's rape. _And_ ,” he added, as Anders opened his mouth to clarify, “I'm not so desperate for a tumble that I'll need a magic bracelet to get someone into my bed. You're the ship's healer, for now. That's your role. Find yourself some work to do. At worst, you can try cleaning up the Captain's cabin. That should take you a week or so.”

With that, Hawke swept out of the room, still pulling on his gauntlets, leaving Anders staring after him, astonished and sitting mutely where he was, then he took in a long, shaky breath. He didn't dare to hope. His first master was Ser Martin, who Tanner had later mentioned had gained a small reputation in breaking the most recalcitrant, rebellious mages who had been collared under the Mandate. Martin enjoyed little games like this, long, mental games of illusive freedoms and false rewards, until his mages understood the finality of their place. Anders had learned well, even if it had taken him a long time to do it. The leash could not be removed; nothing for him could go back to the way it had been-

There was a faint thump, and Anders looked over to the cabin door, then downwards. Major sat proudly on the floor, presenting a disembowelled rat before itself, flicking its tail briefly from side to side before shooting Anders one more grave glance and padding away. The broken body began to bleed rapidly into the wood, staining it.

With a yelp, Anders hastily scrambled forward, looking for a rag.

III.

“You asked him to clean my room,” Isabela said accusingly. It was Hawke's turn on the helm, she was perched on the edge of the bridge, her long boots dangling off the rail. The _Siren's Call_ was beautifully responsive to his touch, better than the finest woman, and today his love the wild blue sea was generous with her winds and currents. Anders was nowhere in sight and he could smell no squalls on the horizon. It was shaping up to be a good day.

“I might have.”

“I was fond of some of those dust balls.”

“No doubt, Captain.”

“And you still haven't bedded him.”

“We've been over this, Captain.” They were but days away from Cape Thorn, and Hawke was looking forward to shore leave.

“I'm disappointed. He didn't try to crawl into your bed? Hump your leg? Surprise you in the mornings?”

“You're doing it again, Captain. That friend-fiction thing.”

Isabela let out a deep sigh. “It's _such_ a set up. Slave collar and leash, blonde pretty slave, dashing Raider... we could sell the idea.”

Hawke shuddered. “No thanks. I told him to keep his hands to himself and he has. I'm surprised at you. I thought you'd understand.”

“I would. For... oh, give or take four days or so.” Isabela pursed her full, red lips, speculative. “But if I had a week of him looking at me like that...”

“You want a week of him looking at you like that, feel free. Take the bracelet for a spin.” The _Siren's Call_ tugged gently at his hands, and Hawke automatically made an adjustment with the wheel.

Isabela sighed. “No, you're right. If I wanted to rut, there's any number of free men on this ship willing to hoist their mainsail for me. I was married once. I know what it's like to be utterly dependent on the will of one person.”

Isabela? _Married_? “Marriage isn't exactly meant to be slavery.”

“It is, when you're sold into it,” Isabela's voice took a sharp edge to it, as she looked away, but she was smiling faintly when she glanced back. “But luck has a funny way of changing things. He died, I inherited his ship, and here we are.”

“You were _sold_ into it?”

“Marriage is contractual in the deplorably rural bits of Rivain,” Isabela shrugged. “It's normal there. I was sold for a goat and a handful of coin. I'm actually insulted that my mother didn't think to bargain.”

“You're right about it being insulting, you're definitely worth at least two goats and a sheaf of corn,” Hawke said agreeably, and ducked quickly as a throwing knife appeared between Isabela's fingers.

Thankfully, the lookout distracted the Captain before she managed to murder him. “Sail ho!”

Isabela took the spyglass from her belt, hooking her heels into the rail as she leaned forward. “She's dead in the water.”

Hawke squinted at the growing speck wallowing listlessly on the sea to his left, suppressing a shudder. Dead ships were bad luck. “What happened to her? An overzealous attack from one of our compatriots? Antivan warship?”

“Looks like she was burned. There's something on the deck. Like a heap of old canvas.” Isabela frowned, leaning precariously forward, then she abruptly snapped the spyglass back to her belt and scrambled for the wheel. “Dragon!”

From the deck of the ship, a pair leathery wings, spreading wide over the deck of the ship that the dragon had been sunning itself on, flared up languidly. Hawke relinquished the bridge to Isabela, hurrying for the deck. “ _All hands on deck!_ ” A dragon that preyed on ships would know to keep clear of broadsides from the cannon galleys. “Hold your fire unless it comes!”

Isabela was steering the ship away from the burned hulk, the winds catching their sail, but the dragon had already seen them, leaping ponderously into flight. It was a relatively small one, having probably just grown into its wings and its flame, but it was more than capable of doing them serious damage. If it torched the sails, they would never survive the Gauntlet to Cape Thorn. Even limping back to land might prove impossible.

It circled high above them, ignoring the arrows from the crew, then it swept down with a snap of its wings, plucking the lookout from the crow's nest with a snap of its jaws. Blood, gore and a severed hand rained down on the deck, and the men milled, panicked for a moment before Isabela roared at them, rallying them with insults hurled both at the dragon and at her crew alike. An arrow embedded itself into the dragon's unarmored belly, and it roared in surprise and pain, rolling itself out of range with a snap of its wings, and breathing deep.

That wasn't a good sign.

“Get ready!” Hawke shouted, but Isabela was laughing again, her wild, defiant laugh as she made her ship yaw wide as it surged forward, the sails snapping taut in the winds, the breath of flame missing the sails to torch part of the deck instead. Crew on a pail line scrambled to work, sluicing water from roped pails dunked over the side onto the fire.

Then the dragon hissed and shrieked as lightning crackled over its eyes, blinding it briefly, causing it to flip its wings and roll higher over the ship, then it roared in outrage as ice crept up over its left hindquarters. Anders was standing near the prow, looking pale, electricity crackling over his fingers as he spread his palms towards the dragon. It screamed again as its head snapped back, pulling itself higher, out of range, circling.

“What are you doing? Get indoors!” Hawke snarled at Anders, as the dragon abruptly plummeted. Hastily, Hawke ran for the mage and shoved him flat onto the deck, before he leaped for the rigging, climbing quickly to gain height. As the dragon slowed, hovering down to try and get into biting range, arrows glancing off its armored hide, Hawke muttered a quick and hasty prayer to the Maker and jumped.

The dragon shrieked as Hawke landed on its back and drove his dagger into its neck, gripping its shoulders with his legs and hanging on as he drew his second dagger from his belt. The dragon rolled desperately in the air, trying to make him fall, clawing at him, but Hawke grit his teeth as talons sheared through his greaves and boots, carving open the dragon's neck at its soft underside from head to shoulder. It made a gurgling, choking sound, trying to spit flame and spinning madly as it lost height with stomach-churning speed, and Hawke hastily sheathed his blades and dived.

It was still thrashing in the water as he cut into the sea, twisting and sinking fast, and as Hawke began to swim towards the ship, ignoring the flaring agony in his legs, he caught for a moment a feral gaze that was mad with hatred, before the dragon twisted underwater, a cloud of blood foaming in a dark cloud around it as its struggles weakened.

The men cheered when he was hauled aboard, his hands locked in the ropes that had been thrown into the water for him to secure himself to, and Anders was at his side, examining then healing the deep gashes on his legs. “Thank the Maker you're safe,” he said breathlessly, and Hawke was trying to find the breath to say something in return when Isabela kicked him in the ribs.

“That was the craziest...” she paused, and amended, “The third craziest thing I've ever seen you do. After the thing with the two-tailed beast in the White Tower, and that song and dance with the Nevarran warship.”

Hawke accepted her outstretched hand, hauling himself to his feet. “Glad to hear that a dragon rates behind a Nevarran warship.”

“It was a big warship and a small dragon,” the Captain said unmercifully, and marched back over to inspect the damage done to her deck. “Blast. We'll have to stay longer at the Cape for repairs.”

“Why 'blast'? Any people whom you owe money to there?”

“None of immediate consequence. But the Coven is meeting there at this time of year,” Isabela scowled, “And if we stay too long, they'll notice.”

“The Coven gets along with the Raiders, doesn't it?”

“Most of it, yes,” Isabela muttered to herself. “Andraste's tits. Couldn't we have found a dead ship full of treasure?”

“We could circle back to the dead ship. It might be full of treasure,” Hawke suggested.

Isabela brightened up. “You're right. We're turning around.”

As it turned out, it was a dead ship with a hull full of panicked chickens, many of which were already done in from fear, but one tended to take luck and fresh meat where one found them.

3.0.

Protecting Master's ship with what little offensive spells that he'd been allowed to learn seemed to have earned Anders a measure of respect amongst even the battle-hardened Raiders; even when Isabela ordered the rum ration to be doubled for the night in celebration of having survived a dragon attack on the open sea, he didn't hear any references to his role as 'Hawke's whore', cabin-boys or any of the somewhat more colorful descriptions of what he was. What he was _meant_ to be. To date, Hawke had been entirely serious about his second ground rule.

Uncomfortable from receiving praise from other people and unable to contribute to the alcohol-addled, increasingly difficult to believe exchange of piratical exploits amongst the men, Anders retreated, thankful that everyone seemed too soused to notice. Master was sprawled against the mainmast with the Captain, anyway, her head cushioned in his lap as she laughed at some quip of his, and his chest had begun to ache from just watching it.

Maker, he was _envious_. That hadn't happened before – his masters before Hawke had all taken other partners to their beds before, and usually, Anders felt vaguely relieved about it. It meant that he wasn't expected to perform a function as someone else was already pleasing his master, and any idle state with a said lack of expectation was usually what passed as peace in his existence. Prior to meeting Hawke.

Now he was constantly uncertain about what he was meant to do. Master sometimes became irritable when Anders tried asking for guidance, and he found over the past few days that it was easier to just try and make himself useful by healing the minor scrapes, cuts and fractures that the crew picked up in the course of their duties, cleaning up the cabin, cleaning after Major, or with any of the other smaller, endless tasks that revolved around running a fully functional ship.

It was also the longest he had ever gone without managing to please his master, and habit and training were making him restless, a dull tension winding slowly tighter within him. It was beginning to be difficult to concentrate on anything else. Master seemed otherwise occupied tonight, and Anders stumbled back to Hawke's cabin unsteadily. He hadn't liked the taste of rum, but had drunk some when Hawke had asked him to try it, and it was rather stronger than he had expected.

Ser Tanner would have beat him for this, but Hawke wasn't Ser Tanner, and the rum was making him dare more than he should. Partly crouched on Hawke's bed, one leg braced on the floor and his shoulder on the bunk, Anders rubbed his cheek against the sheets and breathed his Master's scent in deeply, squirming when he felt his prick begin to stir. It wouldn't be of any use to touch himself – he couldn't come without his Master's word – but he crept his hand under his robes, hiking them up past his knees to take himself slowly in hand anyway, drawing out what little pleasure he could give himself that wasn't born of the collar.

Usually, he tried to keep his mind as blank as possible, or to try to think back on the few experiences he'd had in taverns and inns during the escapes that he had managed before the Mandate, but this time, Hawke sprang immediately to mind, with his devilish, fearless smirk and his swaggering walk, the long, rough fingers. Confident and in control, the Raider would push him down on the bed and spread his thighs, thrust inside him in a gritty, heady slide-

Hawke's startled oath from behind him made Anders scramble quickly off the bunk and into the corner between the bunk and the wall, pulling his robes back down over his knees. “Sweet Andraste, you should at _least_ close the door!”

“It's... it's Master's cabin,” Anders mumbled, flushed with shame and fear, but Hawke didn't seem angry, merely muttering something to himself as he pulled the door shut.

“Well, finish up and go to sleep.” Hawke sat down on the bed, pulling off his spare pair of boots, then working on his shoulder guards. He glanced up when Anders didn't move. “I used to be a soldier in the Fereldan army before I became a Raider. It's not going to bother me if you keep going.”

“It doesn't matter,” Anders said, wondering how to phrase things gently. Describing the functions of the collar and leash to Master only seemed to annoy him.

“Anders,” Hawke said, in that _tone_ he used, part disappointment, part pity, like he was something broken. Anders didn't like it; the collar didn't know how to react to it, and he was always left with a dim impression that he had failed some sort of test.

“I can't finish unless you let me,” Anders said quickly, and added, as Hawke frowned, “Don't be angry. Please. I don't mind.”

“ _I_ mind. Come here.” Hawke's expression twisted briefly at how eagerly Anders quickly pulled himself over to sit at his feet, though he caught Anders' hands as the mage reached for his belt. “Ground rule number two, Anders.”

“Oh.” Anders said, disappointed. He had thought-

“You don't need to do that to finish, anyway. The creepy trigger phrase is good enough, isn't it?”

Hawke seemed to be in an agreeable mood; perhaps it was the rum. Hopefully, Anders tried, “Even if I were to have to sleep aching, I would rather please you than-”

“Not this again,” Hawke groaned, closing his eyes briefly. “Let's just get this over with. Maker! Don't look at me like a kicked puppy. You've been a good indentured mage.”

As Anders had thought, he didn't get the kick of ecstasy from his collar. “Um.”

“What,” Hawke said, incredulous, “Did I finally break the kinky templar sex toy jewellery?”

“You can't reward me when I haven't done anything worth rewarding,” Anders pointed out the obvious.

“You hit a dragon with sparkles today and nearly got eaten,” Hawke recalled.

“But you didn't approve,” Anders said, unhappy at the memory. He'd had his heart in his mouth the whole time that Hawke had fought the dragon single-handedly, felt a deep despair when Hawke had plunged into the sea along with the creature. He had been so relieved when the crew had pulled their First Mate back on board that he almost hadn't been able to concentrate on the healing spell.

Hawke looked like he was developing a headache, rubbing at his temple. “So you have to do something for me to approve of before the trigger phrase works. Well, entertaining an embittered cynic shouldn't be too hard, should it? Can you juggle forks? Conjure pink bubbles? Do coin tricks? Recite filthy limericks?”

“...no,” Anders let out a defeated sigh, downcast. Non-templars seemed so _complicated_.

Instead of rebuking him, however, Hawke chuckled and patted the bed beside him. “Sit here. I'm getting a cramp in my neck looking down like this.” Anders' arousal twitched hopefully as he quickly obeyed. Perhaps Hawke was going to forget the ground rules; Maker help him, but Anders had never been so hungry for another person's touch before. Hawke seemed to be a very tactile man, free with his hands, always with a quick slap on a crewman's back, playful shoving and mock tussles; even with the Captain he seemed to have little concept of personal space. All save where Anders was concerned; since that first and last time he'd been praised, Hawke seemed to have been very careful not to touch him. It was unfair.

Instead of pushing him down on the bed, however, to Anders' disappointment, Hawke merely hooked a pillow towards himself and used it to lean against the hull of the ship behind him, crossing his legs. “How about you tell me a story?”

“A story? About what?”

“You're from a Circle. You must have read a lot,” Hawke said vaguely. “Surely there was something in there. Or you could tell me about the Circle before the crazy sex toy trend.”

“I'm not the best person to ask,” Anders confessed. “I spent much of my adult life before the Mandate trying to escape. I succeeded um, six times, but I usually got caught eventually. The templars have my phylactery.”

“Your what?”

“It's a vial of blood that they take from mages, so that they can track us if we run.”

“Isn't that blood magic?”

Anders had to smile. “Don't ever let a templar hear that from you. But they can use it to find me.” An uncomfortable thought curled at the edges of his mind. “It may... if they manage to trace me, they'll-”

“Let them come.” Hawke was frowning up at the ceiling. “Is that why you didn't want to be left alone on the ship?”

“No,” Anders glanced at the green bracelet around Hawke's arm. “I didn't want to be separated from Master.”

“Why? Does it hurt?”

“I... I know that you want to get rid of me. Isn't there anything that I could do to-”

“I asked you a question, Anders.”

“The collar doesn't hurt me if you're not there,” Anders said reluctantly. The collar wouldn't let him lie, either. “But-”

“That thing it does to you when the trigger phrase works, it's like a drug,” Hawke guessed, his eyes awful and grim, “I've seen brothels that string out their prostitutes on drugs and abuse, to make them docile. The things that people do to each other.” _You kill people_ , Anders thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Still, Hawke chuckled, as though he had read Anders' mind. “I kill and I steal, I lie and cheat. But there are lines that nobody should cross.”

“Who decides the lines?” Anders asked, then felt surprised at himself for doing so. “To much of Thedas, mages are monsters waiting to happen.”

“Don't I know it,” Hawke said wryly, looking distant for a moment, then he grinned. “Things change. Slavery used to be normal. Now it's mostly not. Maybe other things will change.” He yawned and rolled his shoulders. “It just takes a spark somewhere. Then a bloody revolution and people getting burned at the stake.”

“You sound like you want something like that to happen.”

“Don't read into it,” Hawke said dryly. “I'm not a revolutionary. Give me the open sea and a fast ship any time. Weren't you going to tell me a story?”

“I don't know what you'll like to hear,” Anders said hopelessly, “What you want. I wish that you'd just tell me.”

Hawke sighed, rubbing at his face. “Sometimes I don't know what I'm trying to do. Maybe you'll be happier with Isabela. She loves giving orders. You love taking orders. She's not a cruel person, and you're pretty enough for her to get over her aversion to master-slave arrangements. A perfect match.”

 _If that is what Master wants_ , were the words that his training supplied, but what Anders ended up saying, in a small voice, was, “Please don't give me away.”

“That's your collar talking,” Hawke said dismissively, with another yawn, and before Anders could think of a way to correct him, he added, “You've escaped six times from the Circle. There are six stories right there.”

Hawke fell asleep during Anders' recollection of the second escape, and didn't wake up when Anders tentatively poked him in the knee, probably because of all the rum that he had drunk. With some effort, Anders managed to haul both of Hawke's feet up onto the bunk, arranging pillows and blankets, before kneeling down before the bunk and taking one unresponsive hand up between his.

When Hawke didn't even stir, Anders brushed his lips over the knuckles, tracing a faint white scar that ran across the ring and small fingers, from the edge of a slim knife, perhaps, guiltily enjoying the warmth and scent of his Master's skin. Other than the urge to please, he'd never actually felt so disconcerted at the thought of having a new master before. It had been a fact of life: templars tended to trade leashes now and then, and mages with healing magic were, as Isabela mentioned, rare. Many templars wanted his leash; Anders had always accepted that.

As incomprehensible as Hawke was, as uncertain as Anders always seemed to be with Hawke as his master – he wanted that. Hawke was all sharp edges, like one of his wicked blades; talking to him, Anders never knew if he was going to get himself cut up – but he wasn't cruel, and as ill-conceived as it was, he seemed to genuinely want to treat Anders as something other than what the collar made him to be. A small fragment of himself that Anders had long thought strangled appreciated that.

“Please,” Anders murmured, to a Maker that, since the Mandate, he'd thought had turned His back on any child born with a touch of magic. “I want him to keep me.”

Hawke stirred restlessly in his sleep, and Anders froze for a moment as the Raider merely rolled onto his back and continued to snore. Smiling faintly to himself, Anders pulled up the blankets and pulled himself into the hammock.

IV.

Isabela stared at him dubiously when Hawke finished explaining. The ship was quiet today – everyone was a little hung over, but they'd have a day to recover before they reached the strong currents and the hidden reefs that constituted the Gauntlet. “What makes you think that I want the blasted thing?”

“I know that you're curious.” Hawke was perched on the edge of the bridge, enjoying the stiff breeze, the sharp, crisp edge of cold. “It's a great idea. He'll be happier with you.”

“What happened to all those high words about taking advantage of the 'poor man'?” Isabela drawled, trailing her fingers over the spokes of the wheel, though she looked speculative.

“Just my opinion. You're obviously entitled to yours,” Hawke shrugged. “I don't think that you have it in you to mistreat him, and besides, he seems unhappy with me. This thing gives him some sort of happy drug when he does what he's trained to do,” Hawke tapped at the bracelet, “I can't give that to him. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin.”

“I'm not sure whether there's some sort of backhanded criticism about me in there somewhere,” Isabela pursed her lips. “Did he want to change... handlers?”

“I don't think he's capable of making a choice,” Hawke grimaced, thinking of the pleading look that Anders had shot him last night. “Of course he's been trained to say he wants me. But once this thing is on someone else's arm he'll change his tune. Come on,” he added, cajoling, “You can try it for a while. If he pisses you off, you can give the bracelet back to me.”

“And then?”

“And then what?”

“You wanted to leave him at Cape Thorn. He's been cloistered most of his life. He's not going to last five minutes.”

“The Coven's meeting up, isn't it? I'm sure we can foist him on some fellow mages who can fix him.” Hawke felt a brief pang as he said it, a little like possessiveness, but he manfully ignored it. “The collar isn't what makes him want to stay with the person wearing his leash, it's just that he's trained to want the fix that he gets from it. Once he gets over the withdrawal symptoms he'll be fine. Either of us can wear the bracelet as mere jewellery for a bit, then we'll check back on him when he's back in his right mind, and put it on someone he trusts or something.”

“Altruism from you. I'm shocked.”

“Not really. This thing unnerves me.” Hawke admitted. “I look at him and I think, what if my sister had survived the Blight? If she'd gotten caught... Maker, it makes me want to stab something. Also,” he added, when Isabela shook her head at him, “I'm _this_ close to giving in to him. And then I'm going to hate myself. And jump overboard. Then you'll have to go to Par Vollen without a First Mate.”

“Blackmail, I knew it.”

Hawke grinned. “Love and kisses.”

“Oh, fine. Give it to me.” Isabela said, making a big show of reluctance as Hawke unclasped the bracelet from his arm and looped it on hers. It constricted instantly to fit, and she admired the gleam of it in the sun. “Not bad. Nice color.”

“He's coming topside,” Hawke pointed at a familiar head of blonde hair emerging from the stairs. “He'll start fawning on you instead, and then I'll get some peace and quiet.”

Anders looked up at the bridge once he was on the deck, with an adoring smile that faltered when the mage realized that the bracelet was missing. Before Anders could panic, however, Hawke pointed at Isabela's arm. “You're under new management,” Hawke told the mage cheerfully. “Bigger quarters. Many dustballs to play with.”

“He got rid of all of them a couple of days back. Even the ones under the bearskin,” Isabela said sorrowfully, then added, with a frown, “Oh. Look what you've done.”

Instead of rushing up to throw himself at Isabela's feet as Hawke had expected, Anders turned very pale, and hurried back below decks with a raw sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Shocked, Hawke didn't see Isabela approach him until she had clasped the bracelet back on his arm.

“It didn't quite match my eyes,” she said mildly.

4.0.

It hadn't been appropriate to return to Hawke's cabin, but in his blind flight Anders hadn't been concentrating on where he was going. Curled against the bed, his head buried in his folded arms, Anders bit down hard on his lower lip, focusing on the sharp sting of pain. He should have _known_ not to hope that things could change. Hawke hadn't wanted the bracelet from the start once he had found out what it entailed, after all. At least it was Isabela that he had given it to, not any of the others. He'd have to calm down, pick himself up, and-

“Hey.” Hawke walked as silently as Major did; Anders hadn't heard the door close, even. Warm arms hugged him from behind, and Hawke tucked his sleek, bearded chin against his shoulder, leaning against his back as he sat down.

“You're not my master any more,” Anders said dully, without looking up.

“Mm. Then why are you in my cabin?”

“I,” Anders made a wrenching sound, then he shakily swallowed hard. “I, I'll go.”

“Captain has the helm for another hour yet,” Hawke said, and didn't move. “What was that about? Shouldn't you be jumping for biscuits from her hand?”

“I thought you were different,” Anders whispered. “Last night I... I thought,” he had to clear his throat again, “How good it was to finally meet someone who looked past the magic I was born with, who thought that what was done to me was wrong. I wanted you to touch me so badly. You're so friendly with everyone else.”

“That was the collar.”

“The collar lets the holder of my leash deal out rewards and punishments. It doesn't puppet me the way that you think it does.” Even before, he hadn't wanted his templar masters' touch, only the word that would get the collar to give him the buzzing, ecstatic high.

Granted, the collar did have a few more, subtler functions: a collared mage could be silenced, could not lie, and could not cast offensive magic against its master, but other than that, it did little else. Presumably because it was based on the qunari's device; from what reports about that warlike race that he had come across in the Circle, qunari weren't much into humiliating sexual gratification, at least not in this way.

“Doesn't it? You're an addict. Addicts will do anything for their kicks-” The rest of Hawke's words were stifled as Anders twisted around, all raw pain and impulse, crushing their lips together. Hawke made a muffled sound of surprise as he was knocked onto his back, but he propped himself up on an elbow and curled his fingers tightly into Anders' loose tresses, moaning as he kissed him back, taking control, licking into Anders' mouth, then sucking roughly on his mauled lip, until Anders was shaking against him, punctuating the breaths he needed between their hungry, biting kisses with choked sobs.

“Please,” Anders whispered, when Hawke's breathing turned shallow and uneven. “Get the leash back from your Captain. _Please_. I don't want to go with her. Even if you never touch me again, even if you never speak those... the words to me, I'll bear it. I'll do what you want, obey all your rules-”

“Shh. Close your eyes.” Anders obeyed, though he whimpered and pulled at Hawke's shoulders when he felt the Raider worm out from under him. “Stay there.”

“You'll, you'll get the leash?” Anders asked hopefully, turning his face to Hawke's voice. He heard Hawke open one of the chests, with fabric rustling, then the Raider was pulling a soft sash over his eyes, blindfolding him, knotting the cloth snugly at the back of his head. “Hawke?”

“Humor me,” Hawke purred, and there was a rough edge to his voice that made Anders swallow thickly in anticipation and nod. “Keep your hands to yourself.” Deft fingers were picking open the clasps of his robes, sliding the sleeves down to his elbows inch by slow inch, as though Hawke was examining him, and when the robes were finally pooled on the floor, feeling more and more self-conscious because the blindfold made him unable to gauge Hawke's reaction, Anders couldn't stand to keep his silence any longer.

“Is there something-”

Leather and metal landed on the ground beside him with a clinking thump, then bared hands were stroking, rough and warm, up over his thighs, spreading him open. A thumb pressed up the vein on the underside of his hardening prick, and he shuddered, arching his back and twisting his fingers into his robes with a breathy moan. “Maker,” Hawke breathed, _reverent_ , as though admiring something precious, then he was mouthing over Anders' shoulders, marking his skin with his teeth, growling when Anders merely gasped and pushed eagerly into his mouth, the sting from each bite all the more intense; blindfolded, all the rest of his senses seemed to be working overtime. “That's it. I give in.”

“May I... may I touch you?” Anders asked tentatively.

“Not yet.” Hawke murmured, against his neck. “I thought that you would be happier with Isabela. She'll give you what you want. A daily fix, no pesky moral questions asked.”

It was difficult to concentrate, with those deft hands caressing him, exploring him, cataloguing every part of him that made him squirm or whimper. “But she won't give me what I need, would she?”

“And what would that be?” Hawke chuckled as Anders let out a frustrated groan – his hands had just slipped up from his waist, ignoring Anders' aching arousal despite the mage's wordless protest.

“A constant reminder,” Anders dared to lean blindly forward, bumping blindly against Hawke's chin before he righted himself and licked along the pulse down Hawke's neck, memorizing the salt and musk of Hawke's skin, the rumbling purr against his tongue. “That I am and should be more than what I've long resigned myself to be.”

Hawke hummed, leaning up to bare more of his skin to Anders' mouth. “You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“You don't always enjoy what you need,” Anders managed to navigate his way up to Hawke's lips, which were curled upwards, as though into one of the Raider's wicked grins, and licked into his mouth again, pressing forward with a moan as Hawke drew Anders' tongue into his mouth to suckle, wet and sloppy, even as a rough hand finally wrapped around his prick and _squeezed_ , Hawke chuckling again, deep in his throat, as Anders bucked eagerly into the pressure. “Garrett, _please_ -”

“Up,” Hawke said tightly, tugging on his arms, guiding him backwards until the bunk hit the back of his legs and he nearly tumbled into it, but for Hawke's long fingers pressed over the small of his back. Hawke pulled him forward until he was sitting on the very edge before pulling back and removing his armor and clothes, then he was nudging Anders' thighs over his naked shoulders.

Disbelieving, Anders sucked in a breath. “You're going to... to...”

“Objections?” The flat of Hawke's _tongue_ was lapping up against the leaking tip of his cock, and Anders' hips jerked up as he gasped. “I guess not.”

“I don't expect... oh, _oh_ , Maker have mercy,” Anders stuttered, as Hawke swallowed him down, slow and deliberate, until he couldn't take any more of him, his tongue pressed tight against him. If he didn't have the collar on, Anders would have come there and then, choking and clenching his fingers tight on the bedsheets to keep from bucking as Hawke _purred_. He didn't remember ever being this hard before, this mad with frustrated pleasure. If only he could have his eyes back. “Garrett, I want-”

At the sound of his name, Hawke moaned deliciously around him, as though he was _enjoying_ this, having another man buried in his mouth, and, Maker, began to suck, rubbing his tongue up with his work as he did so, purring enthusiastically, clenching his tight throat over the swollen head of Anders' prick. Anders felt like he was going to die; he had no way of finding release, and this was better than good, better than anything he could have dreamed of. He dimly knew that he was panting Hawke's name between babbling for mercy, but Hawke took his time, ignoring him, bobbing leisurely up and down his arousal like he was _savoring_ the moment.

When Anders' cries segued to incoherent moans, Hawke drew back, with a hoarse laugh at the whimpering sound that he made, and he was taking Anders' mouth, tongue thrusting within, bitter and sharp with the taste of himself, making him shake from the pulse of lust that _that_ brought through him. He had never thought that he could ever want someone of his own volition again, separate from his cravings for the bracelet's kick. It was exhilarating.

Hawke turned him facedown onto the bunk, chuckling above him when Anders instinctively rubbed himself desperately and futilely on the bedsheets, and proceeded to make a concerted attempt on Anders' sanity by slowly and unhurriedly exploring his neck and back with the same slow, nibbling, sucking kisses, lapping around the collar, working down, inch by inch as he ignored Anders' pleas and plaintive mewling. When the first slicked finger finally pushed into him, Anders had to swallow a sob of relief.

“Garrett?” Anders queried, frowning as Hawke pulled him back up on his knees, then he bit his lip as he felt the thick head of Hawke's arousal nudge teasingly against his opening. “Please!”

“You want it? Even if you can't finish?”

“I want it, Maker, please, Garrett, I want you inside me-”

Hawke purred again, guiding himself slowly into Anders – too slowly – Anders made an impatient, thin sound and ground down, ignoring the hot friction and the twist of pain as he seated himself in Hawke's lap, bracing himself against the bunk and letting out a choking, taut moan of ecstasy, the Raider uttering a rough string of curses against his shoulder.

“Don't be impatient, you'll hurt yourself,” Hawke was holding his hips in place.

“I can heal,” Anders retorted breathlessly, squirming to arch into Hawke's mouth as he bit down over a shoulderblade, then lapped against the mark. “It's so good.”

“Let's not try it,” Hawke retorted, though he smirked against Anders' skin as he said this. “I don't care whether you can heal yourself, this shouldn't even be hurting you at all. Relax.” Shivering, Anders did so, trying to breathe evenly, revelling in the tight fit of their flesh, the sense of fullness that he felt. “Maker's mercy, you're so tight.”

“My... my previous master didn't like to touch me this way.” Tanner had only required his mouth; it seemed that the templar found copulation filthy or something. Anders remembered feeling vaguely grateful about it, once.

“What did I say about mentioning your previous masters?”

“Sorry, I'm sorry-” Anders turned back instinctively to look over his shoulder, even though he wouldn't be able to see Hawke's expression, and felt a kiss slant up over his mouth instead, lopsided and wet. The angle was awkward, particularly since he couldn't see, and at one point he licked up over Hawke's nose by accident, smiling tentatively when Hawke let out a laugh.

“That's good.” Fingers caught his chin, a thumb stroking his jaw. “Smile, gorgeous.”

“You probably say that to everyone,” Anders said, though he flushed in pleasure as he felt a warm frisson within him. “And you've seen me smile.”

“Drug-related ones, yes. Don't remind me.” Hawke's grip finally seemed to loosen, as he pressed a final kiss over his mouth, catching his lower lip briefly and playfully in his teeth. “All right. In your time.”

“In my time?” Anders repeated, confused.

“This goes on your pace,” Hawke said, and bit down again over the nape of his neck, against the collar, when Anders let out a hoarse gasp from a second, intense pulse of desire that shot through him at Hawke's decision. Hawke was giving a measure of control to him.

He couldn't hold a rhythm for long, bracing himself on his splayed knees and his palms, pulling away a hand's breadth before grinding back down, panting as it grew erratic and wilder, pleasuring himself on Hawke's thick arousal, as Hawke thrust against him, keeping pace, until Hawke finally snarled something and dragged him back, impaling him as deeply as possible, the Raider's hips jerking up as he spent himself inside him with a harsh, stuttering oath.

Hawke slumped against him, rubbing his bearded chin against Anders' neck and shoulders as he took Anders in hand, stroking him, reaching down further to fondle his tightening balls with playful fingers before trailing back up to squeeze and jerk at his arousal. Anders whimpered, bucking against Hawke's fist and the spent flesh still buried within him, and it took him a long while to gather enough of the shreds of his mind to gasp, “It won't, I can't.”

Instead of stopping, however, Hawke merely chuckled, stroking the rough pad of this thumb up against the sensitive tip even as he purred against Anders' ear, “You've been _very_ good.”

The kick of pleasure caught him utterly by surprise, like a dam finally being breached, the ecstasy and relief so intense that it nearly forced him insensate, all but convulsing with a raw shout in Hawke's embrace, shaking uncontrollably as his head snapped back against Hawke's shoulder, swept up and trembling as he spilled over Hawke's fingers.

Hawke pulled off the blindfold when he had arranged them both on the bed, grinning at Anders' bemused expression as he pulled the mage up to spoon against him. As Anders touched the bracelet with trailing fingers, Hawke murmured, his voice husky from the abuse that he had subjected his throat to, “The Captain's a better person than you think.”

“I... I didn't know... you could have said that you had it back.” Anders felt his ears start to burn from embarrassment. “I've made a fool of myself.”

“Glad to know,” Hawke said cheerfully, and flicked at Anders' nose when the mage blinked at him. “That you've finally become aware of the concept of personal dignity again, that is. Or a shred of it. It might not last very long on a Raider ship, so treasure it while you can.”

“The way I behaved wasn't appropriate-”

“Things that are appropriate tend to be wildly overrated,” Hawke said, brushing playful, gentle kisses over his eyes. “Besides, your concept of 'appropriate behavior' tends to unnerve me.”

“So I realized,” Anders murmured, snaking an arm tentatively around Hawke's waist, rubbing his cheek against Hawke's shoulder before settling against him, his heart feeling full. He'll have to learn.

V.

“So we won't be 'foisting him off' in Cape Thorn?” Isabela asked, smirking, as the sprawling port city at the tip of Rivain faded into view.

“We're not?” Hawke had the helm, but the currents past the Gauntlet were kinder, and he guided the ship with his mind on automatic. It had been a rough run through the Gauntlet in the storm, but they'd only lost one man overboard, and Anders had taken care of the rest of the injured; the ship had suffered only a relatively minor battering, all fixable. They'd avoided the reefs successfully, though it had been close going; a merchant ship lay freshly shattered on the reef when they had passed, and they had dared not stay to check if its crew yet lived.

“From the noise that the two of you make every night, I can't imagine why you'll still want to get rid of him,” Isabela smirked. “Does he use magic? I can think of a _lot_ of personal applications for ice and lightning. And healing. And haste spells. Ooh.”

“I think you just made my brain bleed a little. And I'm not answering that,” Hawke said primly. “We'll be in Cape Thorn's dockyard for a while, repairing the damage. The game that we're going to set up and play in Par Vollen needs us to be inconspicuous, and a collared mage is on the far end of the 'Strange Curiosities' spectrum. Won't be safe for any of us. Besides, the Coven might know how to safely remove the collar.”

“I wouldn't trust any of the Coven,” Isabela said, her eyes narrowed as she watched the city growing clearer on the horizon. “Nasty little creatures. They'll sooner trick you into drinking a new laxative than give you a potion.”

“It's between them and the blood mages in Tevinter,” Hawke pointed out. “And Tevinter's out of our way. We're running on a tight schedule, and Castillon's not known for his patience. As I _may_ have mentioned before.”

“Not this again,” Isabela groaned. “Look, I know Castillon's a piece of work, but he's paying good money for us to get a book. _Very_ good coin. Coin that we'll need for outfitting to make a run on any of the seas beyond Thedas, remember? Besides,” the Captain added sulkily, “You already refused to help him pick up cargo from the way back, and we wouldn't even have had to go far for it.”

“He refused to detail what we were picking up, and I don't like nasty surprises. Look. I know _why_ we're doing it,” Hawke said, with a deep sigh. “I just think it's very suspicious how he was willing to let us name our price.”

“This is why you can't have nice things,” Isabela shot back, as pilot boats from the docks approached them. “Let's get my girl to port. I can't wait to get to the nearest tavern.”

“Maybe you should watch where you dock this time so you won't spend the next few days once we're out at sea complaining about strange rashes.”

“We have a healer on board. What else is magic good for?” Isabela grinned, swinging herself lithely down onto the deck to trot over and address the pilot boats.

Hawke organised the skeleton crew rotation that would stay on board, while Isabela haggled prices with the harbormaster and the dockyard overseer. Sitting on the edge of the bridge, keeping a watchful eye on the Captain and on their cargo as the crates were loaded up to the deck, Hawke nodded at Anders as the mage came topside and climbed up to the bridge, leaning his elbows on the rail beside him.

“I thought that Raiders would run off carousing once they docked,” Anders murmured. “This looks rather like how a merchant ship is run. And it's so orderly.”

“Isabela runs a tight ship,” Hawke shrugged. “We'll keep some cargo in reserve, but we need to trade for supplies and repairs. Captain won't go off to enjoy herself unless the ship's all taken care of.” He eyed Anders thoughtfully – the mage had buttoned up his robe fully, hiding the collar. “If you're impatient for shore leave, you can start first, but be careful. It's a port city. Plenty of pickpockets, drunken sailors and mercenaries.”

“No, I, I'm fine here,” Anders mumbled. “Could I stay on the ship?”

“Surely you're heartily bored of it by now,” Hawke said, with an arched eyebrow. “And I wanted to try and get someone to look at that collar.”

“And if it takes time, or if I get freed, you'll leave me here?” Anders was staring at his own hands. “I don't want that.”

“You want a Raider's life?” Hawke shot back. “It's not the fun and games that you might have read about. A lot of it is vast stretches of routine. Sometimes the open sea isn't very entertaining. You'll have to love Her to want it.”

“Her?” Anders asked, with a touch of – hah, was that jealousy? “You mean the Captain?”

“No,” Hawke said dryly, “The sea. You must love the sea, in all of her moods, at her wildest and at her best and her worst. Above all else.”

“Oh.” Anders looked relieved. “Can't I try it?”

“Normally, I doubt either Isabela or I would object. But we're headed some place dangerous. You can wait here for us. Rivain's not friendly to the templars. I doubt they'll come this far to get hold of you.”

“Won't you need a healer if you're going someplace dangerous?”

Anders' puppy expression was _deadly_. Hawke grimaced, looking back down at the deck. Dockyard laborers were beginning to unload the spices, as Isabela and a fat merchant further at the docks spat into their palms and shook hands, binding a contract the Rivaini way. “Not with how we're about to approach it. The gamble's been planned. You'll be a wild card that we can't afford.”

Anders was beginning to look visibly anxious. “But-”

“You need some space, anyway. Even if we can't get the collar off. If you're constantly around this,” Hawke tapped at the bracelet, “You'll never get better.”

“I... I want to stay on the ship, please,” Anders said, desperately. “Please. I won't be bored. I won't complain. And whatever you're doing in Par Vollen, I won't interfere.”

“No,” Hawke disagreed, hating himself a little when Anders immediately looked crushed. Still, he knew he was right. “You're going into the city with me. It'll be fun. You haven't really understood all aspects of a Raider's life unless you've been roaringly sick from terrible beer in some disreputable back alley.”

Anders didn't answer, his throat working, and remained downcast and silent even when the cargo had been sorted and the dockyard repair workers had come on board to inspect the damage done to the ship. Isabela remained to supervise – despite all her talk about taverns and docking, she wouldn't go unless she was satisfied that the ship was in good hands – and Hawke disembarked, with Anders behind him, heading into the city.

The market was a sprawling affair, and mostly seemed to involve fish, but there was a promising quarter closer to the wide steps that led up to the inner city that sold gear and armor. After a couple of attempts to interest Anders in staves or grimoires were only answered with woeful stares, Hawke gave it up as a bad job, inspecting a cunningly wrought, hooked blade from one of the many weapons stalls instead, ignoring the stall owner's sales spiel and testing balance and heft. It seemed a little off, and he gave it back to the owner, grinned as the man uttered something rude in Rivaini, and was turning to inspect the next stall when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

It was a Rivaini woman, hooded and dressed in the colorful sashes and flowing tunics of a Rivaini seer, the cut of her clothes showing off the dusky plunge of her cleavage, the swirling, elaborate tattoos over her arms. Instead of a staff, she wore wands at her belt that looked like they were carved of ivory and bone, and her smile under her hood was wickedly playful, almost familiar. Blinking, Hawke found that he couldn't quite place her age, though she had a hint of crow's feet at her eyes, and her hair was shot with silver.

“Greetings, child,” the Rivaini seer purred, in a thick accent. “Care to cross my palm with silver for a glimpse of your future?”

“I already know my future,” Hawke grinned slyly, “It involves better weapons, a warm bath, and a nice bed. As to the rest of it, I prefer to be surprised.”

“It was worth a try,” the seer said, amused, glancing at Anders, then back at Hawke. “Perhaps we could do business instead, then. I'll offer you three goats for the leash that you hold.”

“You're serious,” Hawke said, after a moment of astonishment. “Well then, I'll have you know that he's worth at _least_ five goats. White ones. With black feet.”

Anders gasped, but the seer smiled lazily and said, “Well then-”

“He's not for sale,” Hawke interrupted, “And just thinking about it is making me feel like stabbing something. Possibly you, if we keep discussing this. Savvy?”

“I can see that she's been an influence on you, Garrett Hawke,” the seer chuckled.

“In some places I've been, suddenly letting drop that you know a stranger's name is sufficient provocation for a violent response,” Hawke said dryly. “Aren't you lucky that I'm a gentleman thief.”

“ _There_ you are, Hawke,” Isabela strode up to him, planting her arms over her chest and glaring at the seer. “You. Don't use your tricks on my crew.”

“What a thing to say to your dear mother,” the seer smiled slowly, and Hawke blinked as the resemblance finally clicked.

“Your _mother_?”

“Yes,” Isabela said flatly. “Seeress Victoria of the Coven. Hawke, why is it that the moment I let you out of my sight you fall into the exact sort of trouble that I was hoping to avoid?”

“Perhaps we could carry on the rest of our discussion elsewhere?” Victoria suggested.

Isabela took in a deep breath. “ _No_ , and we're not going to-”

“Aren't you curious about that leash that you're wearing, child?” the Seeress cut in.

“Don't listen to her,” Isabela retorted. “She can't know anything.”

“Don't worry, Captain. I'm a big boy. I'll watch her hands and my purse very carefully,” Hawke said patiently. “She recognised the leash on sight. She knows _something_.”

Isabela glared at him for a long moment, then she sighed. “All right, fine,” Isabela grumbled, throwing up her hands. “But I'm coming with you. And why is Anders looking like you just killed a kitten?”

“He's decided to have a bad day, don't mind him,” Hawke shrugged, evasive, as Victoria led them away from the bazaar and up into the inner city.

Hawke had been expecting (or hoping for) some sort of arcane lair, complete with strange skeletons, bubbling colorful fluids in flasks and/or dried animal heads, and was deeply disappointed to be led into the backroom of a bookshop instead, of which the only furniture was a round table and chairs of uneven height and balance. As they took their seats, Victoria spread a fan of cards on the table, facing downwards, the designs on the back of the cards a set of silver lines painted in intricate whorls on a deep purple.

“We're not here for your fakery,” Isabela said irritably.

“Pity.” Victoria pursed her lips, drawing a card seemingly at random, turning it up to show a man and a woman, entwined under a blue sky. “I weigh fate in your favor for your heart's desire, and this is my thanks.”

“You...!” Isabela snarled, even as Hawke hastily made a grab for her arm as she tried to rise to her feet. “You _sold_ me to a brute who raped me whenever he felt the itch, who beat me when I so much as _talked_ to him, all for what, a goat and some coin? And you _dare_ to-”

“And yet you prosper. Your husband had a lot of enemies. Sooner or later, that dagger that ended his life would have come. Had you remained in Rivain, a ship of your own would have been but a dream.”

“And what if the assassin had decided to kill me as well, or worse?” Isabela sneered.

“But he didn't. A little spin on the wheel of fate, some dice stacked in the winds, and now you have all that your heart desires.” Victoria smiled, catlike, her green eyes sharp and feral. “Shout at me if you want, child. But we're not here to discuss our pasts, are we?”

“Bearing in mind that I'm now really leaning towards the violent option towards any sort of conversation, yes,” Hawke said mildly, though he kept a firm grip on his fuming Captain. “Leash. Collar. Talk.”

“A war is coming. Justinia of Orlais is considering another Exalted March,” Victoria shuffled the cards, and fanned them out again, drawing another card, this time of a stone tower. “Of this the Coven's auspices have made us aware. The Circles will all be leashed, soon; only Cumberland remains for now. And when that final Circle falls, the templars will march. Against Rivain. Against Tevinter.”

“And this is relevant why?” Hawke asked.

“It was context,” Victoria said, untroubled. “The Raiders have a pact with the Coven, do they not?”

“You'll call in the Armada,” Isabela blinked. “Oh, you _would_. Blast!”

“More context, please?” Hawke frowned.

“We'll be conscripted.”

“Oh good. I _love_ getting involved in hopeless causes that I don't care about,” Hawke rubbed at his eyes. “What about the 'it's none of my business' option?”

“There isn't one. Not unless we never intend to dock anywhere in Rivain again. We'll be deemed defectors from the Armada,” Isabela scowled. Rivain was the sole safe harbor for the Raiders, for the sale of their purloined goods and for repairs, free of fear of reprisal. Losing the entirety of Rivain and all of its friendly ports would be a disaster. Not to mention that they would likely also lose most of their crew.

“You have a box of leashes in your hold. Give it to us,” Victoria said quietly. “Or sell it to us, if you must. We need to understand how to undo the magic within them.”

“So you don't know how to remove the collars,” Hawke said, disappointed, ignoring how Anders sat straighter in his seat, in some twisted version of relief. “And how did you know that we had leashes in our hold? Don't tell me you divined it from your auspices. Like, 'that bit of goat spleen is a gray shade of green today, there are templar sex toys in the hold of the third ship from the right'?”

“The Coven has spies everywhere, that's how,” Isabela explained distastefully. “Hopefully the Call won't come for a while yet. We have unfinished business.”

“Speaking of which,” Hawke added, “What's the Coven's view on non-Coven mages? Say if we wanted to leave one here for safety reasons? No goats to be mentioned on pain of stabbing, please.”

“Garrett,” Anders said urgently.

“Don't. She'll sell him off if she got a good offer,” Isabela muttered.

“The Coven is always friendly to mages of any class and color,” Victoria shrugged. “We will be in Cape Thorn for a time, until the leaders of the Raiders can be gathered. Your pet will be safe with us.”

“He's not a pet,” Hawke corrected.

“Oh?” Victoria arched her eyebrows mockingly. “Owners decide the lives of their pets, don't they? Rewarding them or punishing them at will, housing them where they wish?”

“That's _not_ what this is.”

“Isn't it? He's a man full grown,” Victoria countered, “By deciding his life for him, what _are_ you making of him?”

“Fine words from you,” Isabela retorted, “After what you've done.”

“We're free to decide who comes aboard our ship and who doesn't,” Hawke held his temper in place carefully. “It doesn't mean that we think that the people whom we don't take along are all really chickens and puppies.”

“It's not about your employment decisions, is it?” Victoria smiled her catlike smile, shuffling her cards again, and she picked one near the rightmost end of the fan. A blank card. “Tonight you'll buy a room somewhere, in one of the inns in the Thorn. He'll do his best to persuade you, he'll beg, he'll plead, he'll spread his thighs for you, and pushed to the wall, he'll even argue. You'll stand firm at first, then, like many men do when they lose their patience, you'll grow angry. That collar he wears will hurt him. Maybe you'll stop. Maybe you won't. Eventually, you'll try to make things better. But that fragile trust you've built, that thin ice's worth of self-confidence that you've allowed him to develop, that last inch of self-determination within him that makes him human will be shattered. He'll obey you. You'll have won, except you won't have.”

“I think,” Hawke said, into the silence in the room, after a long moment, “That you've actually managed to scare me.”

“This habit of hers was the single most annoying thing that I remembered, growing up. Learning how to roll with disappointment is part of being human,” Isabela shrugged. “He'll get over it.”

“Will he? Won't he? Perhaps.” Victoria slid the blank card back into the deck. “So many possibilities. And all of them in shades of gray, none of them fully good, none of them fully evil. You're right, as well. He won't learn how to live on his own if he stays with you. He won't ever learn how to _want_ to. And that troubles you. As it should.”

“I don't _want_ to,” Anders said defensively, then at Hawke's frown, he added, “I mean it, Garrett. It's not the collar talking.”

“Is it? Isn't it?” Victoria smirked.

“I'm increasingly inclined to try and hurt you somehow. Or cut your purse.” Hawke observed flatly. “Do you have 'advice' then? But before you say anything, I'm going to view any sort of remedy involving eyes of newts or beards of frogs with great suspicion.”

“No. I do not.” Victoria collected the cards into a deck, and nodded at Isabela. “Speak to Ezekiel of the Coven about a price for the leashes. It has been good to see you.”

“Pleasure's all yours, I assure you, 'mother',” Isabela snapped, as she rose to her feet. “Come on, Hawke. This was a waste of time.”

Unsettled by the entire conversation, Hawke wasn't so sure, privately, but he followed his Captain's lead as they took their leave. Once they were outside, Isabela muttered, “Bitch.”

“I agree.” Hawke glanced over at Anders, who quickly averted his eyes, pretending to look over the titles of the books in the dank window behind them.

“Let's go and talk to Ezekiel.” Isabela spat on the street. “Then I'm going to go and get roaring drunk.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

5.0.

Anders could tell that the meeting with Victoria had deeply unnerved Hawke, but the Raider didn't mention it again until Anders had managed to carry him up into the room that Hawke had previously bought at the inn and lever him into the large bed. Hawke rolled onto his back when Anders worked on removing his armor, staring up at the scuffed ceiling, chuckling at some joke in his mind, and Anders couldn't imagine leaving him, or even wanting to leave him.

Still, the meeting had been enlightening, if not at first. The tavern's beer had been awful, and Anders had refused to drink more than one mug; he'd spent most of the night thinking instead, seated silently beside Hawke as he, Isabela and a handful of Raiders had gotten drunk the only way that pirates seemed to know how: raucously and unashamedly. Witticisms aside, Hawke had truly been afraid. He _cared_ about Anders and what the collar had done to him. Once Anders fully accepted this, he'd had a long, slow look back at Hawke's intention to leave him in Cape Thorn and slowly, grudgingly, had begun to work past the knee-jerk reaction of anxious despair.

Hawke wanted the best for him, Anders was sure of it. He wasn't as certain whether the part of him that continued to twist and turn against it was his training, or his addiction, or his own personal need to be around Hawke, or some toxic blend of all three.

“I think I'm too drunk to engage in self-fulfilling prophecies now,” Hawke announced, once he was down to his undershirt and breeches, and Anders sighed, lying down beside the Raider, pillowing his head on Hawke's chest, and took a deep breath.

“If it will really make you happy, I'll stay here. If you promise that you'll come back for me when you've finished whatever you need to do, I'll... I'll wait for you.”

“Somehow we've already skipped to the 'you'll have won, except you won't have' bit without the epic lovers' snit?” Hawke slurred, somehow still managing to mimic Victoria's dry, rasping voice. “The drama queen within me is deeply disappointed.”

“I don't think you're sober enough to quarrel,” Anders said wryly, his eyes half-lidding with pleasure as Hawke threaded fingers through his hair.

“I might surprise you.” Hawke murmured, still staring up at the ceiling. “You have my word that I'll come back for you.”

“Then I'll stay,” Anders said, though he felt saddened even as he did so. “I'll choose to stay. You're right. Maybe I need... space. And I want to be there when the Coven inspects the leashes and collars. If I can help prevent this from happening to any more people, I want to help. I had friends in the Circle. They were good people.”

“Selflessness is a good sign. Usually inconvenient, but good,” Hawke squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “I've been worried that you haven't been improving. Ever since I started being very free with your reward system. The sooner you can figure out how to get this off, the better.”

“Even if we never figure out how to,” Anders shifted up to brush a kiss over Hawke's lips, “When I come to your bed it'll not be because of it. You know that.”

“Mm.” Hawke curled fingers around the back of his head to pull him up, closer, for deeper, slower kiss. “I wonder if I'm too drunk to fuck you. Blast.”

“Let's find out,” Anders whispered, hooking his fingers into the hem of Hawke's breeches.

epilogue.

The days blurred quickly into weeks, and then months. As the Coven had predicted, the Circles were subsumed, and the Chantry was gathering its strength to march. Rivain, it seemed, would be the softer target; the Imperium was bounded by mountains and deserts, and its magocracy was well-armed with private armies, blood magic, demons and the war golems of old.

Raider ships soon were a common sight in Cape Thorn, as they watched for an attack to come from neighboring Antiva. The Armada had closed ranks, and patrolled the seas around Rivain, waiting. Anders suspected that an attack against Rivain would be far more costly than the Chantry would think.

A set of _saarebas_ armor and an _arvaraad_ device was brought in from a private collection in Seere, and the Coven proved that mages seemed to be basically the same all over Thedas, whether free or imprisoned. Two mages researching something inadvertently would have five opinions, three of which tended to end up with something exploding. When multiplied several times and with watchful templars taken out of the mix, Anders was actually surprised that Cape Thorn hadn't yet burned down. He contributed where he could, healed burns where necessary, and spent most of his free time watching the port for two mast brigantines.

Over time, painfully, slowly, his unconscious need for the collar's pleasure ebbed, and then faded. It felt often like a sluggish, empty process without Hawke by his side, but in time, he was grateful for it, no longer shackled to his fears and lusts like an animal, unable to think of anything else but what he wanted. Healing magic was rare in Rivain, as well, but the seers made up for it with a vast array of potions and tinctures, not all of which were actually effective. Still, the Coven allowed him to set up a makeshift clinic in the grounds at the center of the city that they had appropriated, teaching students who had any talent at all in healing. With the war coming, they would need all the mages they could get with skills in mending wounds and broken bones.

He was teaching a group of students the finer points of mixing an elfroot tincture when Jared pointed at the doorway, and the rest of the students looked up. The girls giggled, and a couple of the boys even smiled shyly as Hawke ambled into the clinic with his swaggering, rolling walk, winking shamelessly and flirtatiously at them. His hair seemed more shaggy and unruly than ever, and the armor had pieces he didn't recognize, sharp-tipped shoulder plates in black matte steel, and a red sash at his narrow waist, bounded by thick, embroidered belts and dagger scabbards.

“Garrett.” Anders said, wide-eyed and absolutely stunned, as Hawke sauntered closer and hooked one arm around the small of his back, pulling him close. With his mind at an utter blank, he said the first thing on his mind. “I'm in the middle of a class.” He wrinkled his nose. “And when was the last time you bathed?”

“The things you ask me in public,” Hawke admonished archly, though his eyes darkened a little, and his wolfish smile seemed feigned; the Raider carefully let go of him. “So you are better. That's good to know. Isabela and I will be drinking in the Eastern Wind, down at the Docks. If you want to catch up, we'll be there.”

“Garrett, wait,” Anders said quickly, as he finally parsed Hawke's sudden, distant reaction. The Raider thought that Anders was _pushing him away_. “Class dismissed.” He waited impatiently till the students filed reluctantly out, and closed the door pointedly after them. “Finally. Come here.”

Hawke tasted of salt and whisky, and he relaxed with a low purr as they kissed, curving his hands over Anders' waist, kneading his arse through his robes and chuckling as Anders yelped, muffled, and cant his hips forward. “You've started drinking already,” Anders murmured, when they broke for air.

“Liquid courage.” Hawke conceded. “We heard word from the Docks that you were teaching some sort of school here. That sounded like you had... recovered. I couldn't be sure whether I should still come up to see you, or let you be. Isabela forced half a bottle of whisky down my throat and kicked me out of the tavern. Bloody-minded woman.”

“I'm glad that you did. I've been waiting for you,” Anders confessed quietly. “I heard no word from you – I didn't know whether you were safe, what you had been doing.” _Whether you were going to keep your promise_ , he added, silently.

“Concluding a far messier business than what we expected, that's what. But it's done. We've been paid, and now we've been conscripted into a war effort instead of spending our hard-earned coin funding a trip to the seas beyond Thedas.” Hawke said, with a dry chuckle. “Isabela's drowning her sorrows.”

“Really?”

“No, actually she's having a drunken arm-wrestling competition with a captain of a Raider galleon whom she will most likely bed tonight.” Hawke recalled, then he hiccuped. “I was hoping that we could do the same. Without the arm-wrestling. And Isabela and the Raider captain. And then if you're still up for it and if Isabela's conscious tomorrow, we could discuss terms of employment. The _Siren's Call_ is looking for a ship's healer. And Major misses its personal servant. That is,” Hawke added, more awkwardly, as Anders only stared at him, mutely, his heart feeling full to bursting, “If you still want a life on the sea. Am I talking too fast again? That was a bottle of fairly bad whisky.”

“I said that I wanted to try it. I still do,” Anders smiled slowly. “I know a place with a warm bath. You can tell me all about what you've been up to.”

“And then?”

Anders curled his arms around Hawke's shoulders, and pressed their foreheads together. “And then we'll take tomorrow as it comes.”

**Author's Note:**

> finish... good god, that was an incredibly syrupy ending. The title of the fic was from V for Vendetta.
> 
> Evil!alternative Ending is in the comments, for beingevil.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
